


The Sound of Silence

by visbs88



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, Introspection, Lemon, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:32:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visbs88/pseuds/visbs88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sesshomaru is tensing, is moving, is stretching, but he is not emitting a single whisper to vent what he must feel. He has sealed his lips and has wrapped himself in the dark better than he has, using it to conceal his eyes, his face, his skin reddened by the pain. He knows it better because he has always chased it on his own will, without obeying to any fate. And he can destroy it from within, by that mute din made of control and disdain.<br/>It's a perfection Naraku can just yearn for. Or that he can wreck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> This work of mine is one of my first translations from Italian into English, so please have mercy of me ^^' but at the same time feel free to give any useful advice, if you feel like it. Hope you can like this little smut thing, these two are one of my biggest OTPs and I can only hope to have portraied them at my very best. Enjoy!

He clings to his hips, he bends on his naked and tense back, he sinks into his body with a blunt push and a hoarse moan that stifles in the thick darkness which presses on them.

He can't see him, in the complete and oppressive dark of that starless and moonless night; he can't even hear him – not a lament of pain, not a sigh of pleasure, nothing slips from his lips or his throat. He can only feel the grasp of his scorching flesh, contracted around him, and the silky caress of his long, silvery hair, tinged with black. He puts a hand on his nape and pulls it aside, beyond his shoulder.

He wants the skin, nothing else. He wants to touch every inch of it with his eager fingers, he wants to feel the life that pulsates underneath – pure blood and iron muscles, but also a heart as fragile and vulnerable as any other, that beats the time at a too slow tempo.

He sinks again, panting with arousal and tension; he pushes without gentleness, just to have him, to impose himself on that flesh that scratches and trembles while it takes him in. He licks his own lips and tries to use his own weight, his own strength to press even more, to make his legs and his arms collapse, to trap him between the floor and his body; he fails. On the contrary, he feels his own knees slip, in a ridiculous loss of balance that causes him to leave for a second the body he has tried to bend. He grasps his hips and takes it again – he forces his nails into his skin and a low, satiated moan escapes from his chest.

In silence, the other goes along with that movement, shoving his pelvis against him, who bends forward again biting what his teeth can reach; he begins pushing with brusque, unconnected, agitated motions, drinking sips of pleasure that set the throat of his lust on fire, burning and unsatisfactory.

That body he is enclosing with his arms is warm and alive; it seems to be the proof that even the evil can find somebody to share the darker and deeper abyss with. Controlling the allies and fighting the enemies by deceits and fear is simple, an ordinary game; clutching onto a cruel rival is an agony that takes to pure ecstasy. He smiles in the black, hitting harder, holding tighter – a bitter grin for that illusion to have someone by his side, someone powerful and superb to share the humiliation of desire with, someone to break before breaking, someone in hell's viscous solitude.

Inside his guts the pleasure and the unbearable longing to be able to see the expression painted on his lover's face are entangled – but he should understand better than anyone else, know the dark's charm and benefits: it protects, it hides, it is an asylum for corrupt and lonely souls. Only noise can disturb the dark, wound the perfect nothingness; and he realizes what is wrong within that night, what is tormenting him, what is making him think: the sound of silence that lies underneath his non-harmonic laments, underneath his broken breath.

A silence that's hissing the distance which still separates him from the other.

Sesshomaru is tensing, is moving, is stretching, but he is not emitting a single whisper to vent what he must feel. He has sealed his lips and has wrapped himself in the dark better than he has, using it to conceal his eyes, his face, his skin reddened by the pain. He knows it better because he has always chased it on his own will, without obeying to any fate. And he can destroy it from within, by that mute din made of control and disdain.

It's a perfection Naraku can just yearn for. Or that he can wreck.

He pushes less hard, but faster, steadier. He senses him relaxing while in the battle between pain and ecstasy, till then fought with equally sharp weapons, the second feeling prevails little by little – he can imagine it running along the sensitive nerves of such a powerful demon, used to react at once to every threat, every unusual event. With a hand he touches lightly his chest; he picks at a nipple with his fingers, shivering while he feels it being already rigid, but then he stops to listen to a noise that only death could cancel: that warm vital beat, rapid and stable, dull and deafening, and yet still not enough for him.

He pushes with his fingers, almost scratches. Maybe he could really penetrate in the flesh and tear the heart out from its bleeding refuge; he won't, but he wants Sesshomaru to fear it, or even to flare up – a hiss, a hiss of anger and protest, this is all he's desiring.

The beat quickens and the triumph seems so close, but the following instant a hand grabs his wrist with such strength, his bones creak and a muffled but surprised moan slips from the wrong lips.

The grasp doesn't loosen – it doesn't vacillate even with faster and tenser pushes –, his hand is being trailed down. It touches the smooth and muscular stomach, it is made to stop with its fingers on the moist end of Sesshomaru's hot erection, a sign of undeniable and intense arousal that the gloom wraps but doesn't erase.

The empty threat has failed – it's useless to attempt again to defeat a cruel warrior by fear and provocation, but the glimmer of another weak spot has opened even before he tried to find it. He insinuates into it, tightening his fingers and moving them slowly – the grip disappears, the abdomen has a spasm –, their tempo takes the one of the pushes and the darkness becomes dense with damp sounds, skin over skin.

His throat and his chest are burning, it's impossible to prevent himself to pant his own pleasure; he bends over waiting for an echo, even a weak one, even a feeble one, even a hidden one. The black amplifies every sensation, every shake of wonderful torment. He kisses him in the middle of his shoulder blades and he feels him suddenly arching, rising his head, stiffening more than he has ever done that night.

He holds his breath and almost stops.

The dark and his fingers get wet with thick liquid, that drips on the floor in the most absolute silence.

The moments of stillness are long before Sesshomaru slips away, untying himself easily from the threads of his spiderweb, which is feeble and loosened with astonishment; Naraku understands that he is going to lie down on one side, he perceives the slow movements of his legs, the suddenly strenuous effort of the obfuscated muscles and senses.

Something scrapes on his ears – first a murmuring, a coarse rustle; than a low scratching that for him is piercing like steel on a mirror, stronger and stronger: his own uneven breath, his own panting that cleaves the darkness and gets back the most complete quiet.

For a second reddish spots in the nothingness make him clamp his eyelids; his face tenses in a smile lacking even mockery, before one of his hands claws the warm thigh that touches his.

A push with his arm and Sesshomaru falls on his back, and he's already under him – under his body on fire, under his violent hands guided by an ancient and almost dozen impetus.

He will hear him. He will manage to hear him, to listen to him, no matter what.

_Because even she has screamed in the end and her silent and gentle smile has been shattered in blood._

He keeps him down holding his shoulders, he leans on his face.

_A pure creature doesn't exist; if it ever has, he has already broken and corrupted it._

Their legs agitate, two hands grip his hips through the thick hair that hang down on his back.

_There's nothing perfect, nothing unattainable – he has already fought that war and won, tearing her white flesh and impregnating it with fear, pain, broken dreams._

– There is no honor or dignity tonight, for you – he whispers, and the words flow like a rivulet of poison – Nothing will change this.

He feels his breath, irregular but still silent, and so close.

– Eventually, you are just mine.

The last word is a hiss against his lips, arousal that burns, desire, struggling to force him to open his legs – but his strength is back in all his nerves, by now.

He kisses Sesshomaru to humiliate him and a warm tongue touches his, the lips accept him, their teeth collide – and a hand grabs his erection, a sharp claw lays on the end of it without injuring him, a slow massage begins and pulls a hoarse sigh and a thousands certainties out of him.

He doesn't even try to deceive himself, to deride him: nothing in that action speaks of submission. It's power. It's control, exercised on a restless evil.

– You should kill me.

His voice trembles with nothing but pleasure, while his blood foams and his lips clamp to him to be able to listen.

Everything is motionless. And the sound of silence answers.

It's the scream of a freezing and burning hate, of a deep disregard tarnished only by lust, of a blind and yet rational disgust.

To shout that between a foolish, beautiful and fragile mortal and a dark creature made of unworldly charm and an ice heart there's no connection at all, besides an external demeanor imposed by obligation in one case, by pure nature in the other.

To pull him away from that convulsive start of a still too human heart – _from the ineffable and useless memory of her_ –, from a futile fury caused by a merciless remembrance.

He presses himself against him – against a hand that holds him tighter and against the silence, he smiles and bites corrupted lips able to annihilate the evil using the evil without a whisper.

He licks his throat and his neck and now there's his breath near his ear, the tactile perception of it and nothing more. The claws scratch without wounding: he comes and doesn't hold back any moan which wants to escape from his throat while the darkness gets blacker and his body tenses like never before.

Then, the sheet of the dark touches gently his back and the silence turns to a caress again. Invisible, Sesshomaru still lies underneath him – skin against skin, lips against his cheek, fingers in his hair, so perfect in the motionless quiet.

Killing him – doing it in the light, to see his golden and white face soiled with red – won't donate him a pleasure as fulfilling as dragging him into the darkness and letting him shine there, in the unadulterated slime of his lies and his honor.

That night will happen again, outburst of all anger and lust. And the silence seems to prove it.


End file.
